Tuesday, August 12, 2014


I have a confession to make here. I really, really like Louis L'Amour books. Like I like-like them. Not just like them.

To this point I've read about 45 of them.

I've bought about 95 of them.

I've started buying them in the simulated leather editions.

They're mostly the same book over and over again.

They're like Dean Koontz westerns, only lots and lots better than that.

Every book is basically a mostly silent, but well read cowpuncher or miner who has accidentally gotten himself a reputation as a gunman, or gets himself one through the course of the book, runs afoul of cattle/land rustlers or people out to steal his land/gold/woman, and must prevail over overwhelming odds, being shot and almost dying, a brutal bare-knuckle fight he can't possibly win, but sometimes does, to get the girl/land/gold in the end and lay low the badguys.

Every one the same.

You would be amazed at how many people reveal themselves to be L'Amour fans when they see you reading one of the books.

Invariably it is an older woman or man who will say, "I read all of those in the service," or "My husband doesn't read anything, but he's read all of those books," or "I really love the Sacketts." I also really love the Sacketts.

I have a goal of reading all 85 or so novels L'Amour published, and the many, many short story collections as well.

Louis is not the greatest writer ever.

He was a pulp western author, paid by the word, and He wrote western romances on the whole, but I love the straightforward tales of men being men and philosopher cowboys.

Incidentally Sam Elliot starred in a lot of L'Amour adaptations, and his Cowboy from Big Lebowski would not be out of place in a L'Amour book.
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